


The Entropy Within

by Johnlockedness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, BAMF John, Blow Job, Depression, Doctor - Freeform, F/M, Fingering, Gen, Het, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Penetration, Reichenbach, SOLDIER - Freeform, The Fall - Freeform, The Reichenbach Fall, surgeon, three continent watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockedness/pseuds/Johnlockedness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entropy ~ The state of disorder in a system, progressing towards equilibrium.</p><p>After John Watson witnessed his friend, partner and lover Sherlock Holmes take his own life by jumping off the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew's hospital he is slowly trying to pick up the threads of his old life. Unaware that Sherlock is very much alive, how does John cope with the entropy within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Staying Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 and prologue.
> 
> This is basically my theory on how Sherlock survived the fall. It is based on several tumblr posts and youtube videos. I avoived setlock at saint barts as much as I could. This is probably far off from what is going to happen in series 3, but I just wanted to get it out of my system and build the rest of the story from this moment. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta's [finnefan](finnefan.tumblr.com) and [tiger-in-the-flightdeck](tiger-in-the-flightdeck). They gave me a lot of advice and help.  
> I want to thank [Arianedevere]() for providing the transcripts.  
> And I want to thank my cumberlovelies for my ranting and complaing about the writing process. You know who you are. <3
> 
> I've got chapter 1 to 9 as good as finished. Will try to update daily c: 
> 
> Enjoy, feedback is love!

Sunday 3rd of July 2011

“No. Friends protect people.”

And with that John disappears through the door, leaving Sherlock alone in the lab as requested. Sherlock expression is hard to read as he stares after John, his words sting, they do. His phone chimes a text alert a few moments later.  
 _I’m waiting… - JM_

Never mind John’s words, he has to do this on his own, for his and John’s own safety. Sherlock only wishes there was another way of saying goodbye. It shouldn’t end like this, it can’t end like this. But there is no time, nor an opportunity, left to explain. 

He stands up, pockets the little black ball he has been holding and collects his coat and scarf from the lab table. He walks out of the laboratory and swallows a fair amount of substance retracted from _Rhododendron ponticum._ The plant would cause miosis of the eye pupils, hypotension and bradycardia, slowing his heart rate to under 60 beats per minute. Together with the small black rubber ball he will convince Moriarty that he is also more than just a man. He is anything but ordinary, equal to Moriarty’s ingenuity. 

And a dead man walking. 

He has to defeat Moriarty at his own game. Sherlock rolls his left shoulder and bends his arm a few times as he walks up the staircase to the rooftop of Saint Barts. His arm is somewhat stiff from the puncture wound. Molly helped him to tap two pints of his blood. He texts Mycroft when he is half way.

_All set. John off to 221B. Molly is ready. I will try to reason with him. – SH_

The reply is almost instant.

_All right. Get him to talk. Be careful, Sherlock. – MH_

The corner of Sherlock’s lip curls upward a fraction of an inch and he reaches the top of the stairs and stands before the door. He reaches inside his shirt and places the small black ball under his right armpit. That done he turns on the audio recording option on his phone before slipping his mobile into the tight fit of his right shirt sleeve, just above his wrist. Sherlock hesitates for a small moment before taking a deep breath and opening the door. _‘The game is on.’_

Moriarty sits on the ledge of the roof top, the Bee Gees _‘Stayin’ Alive’_ playing full volume from his mobile phone. 

“Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem.” Moriarty says as Sherlock cautiously walks towards him. 

“Stayin’ alive! It’s so boring isn’t it? it’s just – _staying.”_ His hand hovers in a straight horizontal line through the air before he aggressively turns off the song as Sherlock starts to pace around the roof. _Turns off the song or answers a call_ Sherlock thinks, _what exactly are you playing at. Oh I see you are recording this conversation too. Clever. But not clever enough. Moran? I bet it is Moran isn’t it. I’ll hunt him down, you mark my words.  
Moriarty talks to him and Sherlock listens, listens very carefully and makes sure he saves every single syllable on his hard drive. _ Moriarty sounds disappointed. _Excellent_ Sherlock thinks.

“Ah well.” Moriarty says and starts pacing around Sherlock instead, who stands fixed to the spot, his eyes following Moriarty’s every move, hands clasped behind his back. “Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?”

 _Nice try,_ Sherlock thinks. _Do you really think you would get to me. Me. Sherlock Holmes. I have no equal in this world. And Although you come close. I have beaten you._

“Just trying to have some fun.” Moriarty continues his pacing and Sherlock taps his fingers to the binary code Moriarty presented to him during their little chat in the flat.

“Good you got that too.” Moriarty says, sounding mildly impressed.

Sherlock allows himself a small smirk. _The plan is to play ignorant. Let Moriarty confess to him how he won the game. Let Moriarty admit himself, the evidence will be stronger this way. He is an idiot._ And in one smooth motion, observing that Moriarty’s gaze is not fixed on him, Sherlock slips his mobile phone from out of the concealment of his sleeve, palms it and hides it behind his back. Sherlock knows what to do; play along with Moriarty’s game and record the evidence.

“I told all my clients; last one to Sherlock is a sissy.”

“Yes but now that it’s up here.” Sherlock points to his head with his free right hand, carefully so the ball stays in place. “I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.”

Moriarty shouts at him in disgusted outrage. Sherlock smiles inwardly, keeping a cool profile on the outside. _Good, let the spider get disorientated by its own web._

“But then how did…” Sherlock moves his arms to the sides of his body, still nonchalantly palming his mobile, for the sake of emanating his performed confusion.

 _The ignorant fool, he won’t expect that from Sherlock Holmes. Always trying to be clever. Always showing off. He does not know who I am, what I am capeable of, for one inkling._ And then Moriarty does what Sherlock expected him to do all along, he walks towards the edge of the rooftop.

“Do it? Do – do what?” Sherlock lies, as if he has no idea what is going on. He turns around and he slips his hand into his coat pocket, donning his mobile phone. Whatever is recorded now would be muffled, but still audible. It doesn’t matter, Sherlock has what he came for. Yet, Sherlock knows what’s expected of him and his expression is one of sudden realisation. “Yes, of course. My suicide.”

Sherlock cautiously moves towards the edge. However this is going to end, it is going to end by following his rules. And his rules only. They both stare down over the edge. 

“I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.” Sherlock sounds exasperated and desperate as he counters Moriarty.

Moriarty gaze shifts and he closes his eyes, motioning his head in aversion. “Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort.” Sherlock starts pacing again, anxious this time. “Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?” Moriarty’s voice pitches on the last word.

And with that Sherlock turns around and grabs Moriarty by the lapels of his coat. He dangles him close to the edge. “You’re insane.” He growls in Moriarty’s face.

“You’re just getting that now?” And he makes a whooping sound as Sherlock holds him closer to the ledge, sending him off balance. “Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. You friends will die if you don’t.”

Sherlock knows this. The I O U’s had been a warning. Obviously. But he has to act surprised, confused and shocked. Truth to be told it didn’t take much effort at all. 

_John. The apple at 221B._  
.  
Mrs Hudson. The graffiti at Baker Street. 

_Lestrade. The windows across New Scotland Yard._

_Sherlock knows. And he fears for their lives._

Moriarty continues to threaten him but Sherlock barely listens to him. How is he ever going to fake his death while Moriarty is alive. Can he make Moriarty stop the assassins. He figure he can’t. Sherlock pulls him back up in a clear act of defeat. “Unless my people see you jump.” Moriarty sneers as he straightens his coat in annoyance. “You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die – unless –“

Sherlock knows unless what, and he finishes the sentence for him. 

Moriarty continues his speech. And suddenly Sherlock frowns inwardly; _Moriarty is not going to do it, do what? Kill me or call off the killers?_ Why is Moriarty challenging him. Why is he near impossible to deduce.  
He needs a moment to think. To think properly. Moriarty is distracting him. Like a device that interferes with a mobile phone signal. Sherlock needs a moment to set his thoughts straight. Furthermore the element of surprise towards Moriarty once he does would be beneficial. 

“Of course.” Moriarty eyes him and walks off. Looking vaguely disappointed. _‘Ordinary Sherlock'._ Written all over his face.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes hard. After a few moments he opens them and blinks up at the bright sun. He starts to laugh in earnest.

“What? What is it? What did I miss.” Moriarty spins around and sounds surprised and very agitated.

Sherlock smiles inwardly in small triumph. “ _’You’re not going to do it.’_ So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die – _‘if I have got you.’_ ” He sings the last five words as he relishes the confused look on Moriarty’s face. _Our roles are reversed now. I’ve got you._. Sherlock starts pacing around Moriarty with a predatory look on his face.

Moriarty stares at him, clearly confused at the state of his constricted pupils. The drug, the _Rhododendron ponticum,_ is accountable. The sunlight is bright despite the vast amount of clouds that drift by in the sky and yet Sherlock was not squinting against the sunlit.

Realisation dawns upon Moriarty’s face. And in that moment Moriarty extends his hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock nods his head slightly and looks hesitant and a little surprised at the sudden gesture of ceasefire.  
“Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.” And offering his hand in return, Moriarty takes it and Sherlock allows him to take his pulse, which is beating at a very low rate now. Sherlock feels the nausea and light-headedness because of lack of oxygen to his major organs. 

“ _Bless you._ ” Moriarty regards him in a way between ecstatic and psychotic. “As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out.”  
And then something happens that Sherlock had not anticipated. At all. 

“Well, good luck with that.”

Moriarty pulls out his gun with his left hand and shoots himself in the mouth, angled upwards through his brain case. Sherlock’s body reflexes and he seizes several steps backwards, his arms thrown up as he pulls his hand free from Moriarty’s. Moriarty falls backwards and a thick stream of dark red blood seeps out of the bullet wound. 

Sherlock spins around in despair, he cannot believe what he has just witnessed. The lack of oxygen to his brain and major organs lead to a slight panic attack and he starts to hypo-ventilate, raising his arms and forcing air down his lungs in deep gulps. His body craving for oxygen. 

_Nasal cavity – Glottis – Trachea – Bronchi – Bronchiole –Pulmonary alveolus – Haemoglobin – Pulmonary capillarie – Pulmonary venule – Vena pulmonalis – Left atria – Mitral valve – Left ventricle – Aortic valve – Aorta ascendes – Ateria carotis – Cerebral arteries – Cerebral capillaries. Think. Think. Think!_ He recites inwardly as he fights to regain his calm. 

As intrigued as Sherlock is by corpses and murder, he is not particularly used to people taking own their lives right in front of him.

Realisation hits him hard. With Moriarty dead, he has no other choice but to continue his scheme and jump of the roof of Saint Barts hospital. _As much as I feared._ He detests that Mycroft warned him off, told him about the consequences of his actions should he go through with his plan. But he is rendered with no other choice. The lives of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John are at stake. 

At this moment the drug is taking the upper hand. He can feel his eyes beginning to sting and swell a little and it unsettles him. He cannot help but feel that he was the trigger to Moriarty’s suicide and it feels like a part of Sherlock’s genius died with him. He turns around once more to look at Moriarty’s body. 

He needs help he decides. And he needs it now. He slides his hand into his coat pocket and retrieves his mobile phone. He pauses the audio recording and saves the content. His note.  
He sends a first text to Molly and a second one to Mycroft.

_Get ready. – SH_

_He shot himself. I’m going through with my scheme, I have to. Three snipers. Aimed at John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Get your people ready to cover it up. I will leave my note on the rooftop. – SH_

Sherlock bites his bottom lip in a tentative moment before he walks towards the edge of the rooftop. His eyes are fixed on the pavement as he takes a step up the ledge.  
He carefully scans his surroundings when in the corner of his eye he sees the cab return. 

Sherlock smiles inwardly, good old John, always on time. It wounds him, but it is necessary for John to witness this and listen to his last words. He knows what the consequences of this are going to be. And he knows he is going to hurt John, more than he can possibly imagine. Possibly more than it is going to hurt him. And he understands that if he is going to go through with this plan he will not be able to be with John for a very long time. His drug. His friend. His partner. His lover. His heart. 

John has killed a man once in order to save Sherlock’s life. 

Now Sherlock is going to kill to save John’s life.

As much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock feels frightened. Fear of losing John as his friend, as his lover, as his heart. Because he knows he is going to lose him eventually. But there was nothing for it.

It is better than the alternative of losing John altogether. 

He presses 1 and dial to make the call as the cab stops behind the ambulance personnel building. 

The cab door opens and John appears while answering his phone. “Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey Sherlock, you okay?” John starts running toward the entrance of Barts.

Sherlock panics slightly. John is not supposed to see him land. If he does, his death will not be palpable “Turn around and walk back the way you came from.”  
“No I’m coming in.”

“Just do as I ask. Please.” His tone is desperate yet persistent. And so John does. Relief and shame washes over Sherlock.

“Where?” John sounds confused even through the connection of their mobile phones.

Sherlock waits until the small building in front of the bus stop before Barts blocks John’s view from where his body is supposed to land.

“Sherlock?” John asks confused and Sherlock watched as he turns towards him and finds him on top of the roof of Barts. John is panting slightly, obviously losing his nerve to some extent. 

Sherlock lies to John on how he invented Moriarty as he turns around slightly to look at where Moriarty’s body lies. A puddle of dark red blood surrounding his head. _It will be hell to get rid of_ Sherlock thinks, distracted by the cold lifeless body lying there. Moriarty is nothing but a corpse now and he loves corpses. 

John remains silent and Sherlock can see him staring in growing confusion and disbelief. After a moment John speaks again, waking Sherlock from his quiet reverie. No, he loves John, he decides in a flash. More than corpses.

John has never heard him talk like this, not even when Sherlock had a mental breakdown at the inn in Devon. He is more than a little confused, perplexed if anything.

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

Sherlock laughs coldly. And John stares at him with a troubled expression on his face. Even after telling him that he is a fake, John still does not believe him. The tear that escapes Sherlock’s eye is real. He will come to regret this, but he has no other choice. Sherlock knows that what he is about to say will not only state that he, Sherlock Holmes is not real, but that the past two years with John have been a lie as well. Their friendship, their work, their love.

“I researched you.” Sherlock utters and John grits his teeth in frustration, really not expecting this and certainly not wanting to hear any of this. “Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.” Sherlock feels the sting in his heart as it skips a beat. “It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick.” Sherlock changes that last sentence from past to present tense, it is to remind himself of the truth. He has no doubt that John won’t notice.

And just as Sherlock expects, John doesn’t notice. Yet he doesn’t take the lie either, stubborn loyal John doesn’t budge. And it breaks Sherlock’s heart. 

“All right stop it now.” John says and walks toward the entrance again. Sherlock glances down and sees that the lorry in to which he intends to jump stands at the ready. The board has been set and the pieces are moving. Everyone at the scene is waiting for him. He can make out the shapes of Molly’s colleagues and some of Mycroft’s men that will jump into the scene with the body of his double ganger which Moriarty had used during the kidnapping of Claudette and her brother. Molly had confirmed that the body was in the mortuary. 

A double ganger, but of course. It had only taken a moment for Sherlock to realise after Claudette’s scream. Plastic surgery taken to the utmost extreme level. A surgical experiment. _Brilliant._ Moriarty is, _was,_ a powerful man and people owed him. He owed favours. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of effort to find a _willing_ participant. Well, willing surely is a bit of an exaggeration. 

A copy of Sherlock’s facial structures, believable enough to fool any twelve year old. 

And believable enough to fool a disorientated John.

Whatever happens, John is not allowed to see, or he will ruin Sherlock’s disappearance, and therefore put himself into harm’s way.

Sherlock panics, raising his hand and his voice in an attempt to stop John from walking past the small building. “No stay exactly where you are. Don’t move." Sherlock’s breathing quickens. “Keep your eyes fixed upon me. Please could you do this for me?”

“Do – do what?” John stammers.

“This phone call, it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they. Leave a note.”

“Leave a note when?” John asks for the sake of asking, because he knows the answer all too well, but he does not want to belief what Sherlock is saying.

“Goodbye John.”

“No – don’t.” John’s panic rises as Sherlock breaks their connection and throws his mobile phone away. _His note._ Sherlock’s ticket back to the world of the living. 

“You will see John, but you will not observe.” Sherlock whispers to himself. And spread his arms wide. “I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock!”

~~*~~

John witnesses the moment Sherlock spreads his arms, like a bird ready to take wing, and sees him fall. 

And then, time seems to stand still. 

“Sher – Sherlock.”

John moves forward, and there Sherlock lies. John’s eyes widen. _It cannot be. It just cannot be Sherlock_ , his brain tells him over and over. He’s lying behind a lorry that pulls up and in a blinding haze John starts to cross the street, only to get hit by a cyclist which rams into him from the side. He falls to the ground. His head hits the asphalt hard and temporarily blinds his vision. He feels dizzy, disorientated, but he has to move onward. He has to get to the figure on the pavement. He scrambles to his legs, squinting his eyes and rubbing his head with his right hand. The left still clasped tightly around his mobile, and stumbles towards the gathering crowd of medical staff and eyewitnesses, whilst breathing his lover’s name. “Sherlock. Sherlock.”

“I’m a doctor, let me come through - let me come through please.” And people make way for him, but as soon as he had utters the words; “He’s my friend. He’s my friend, please,” a woman throws her arm around his chest and gently tries to back him away. John is having none of it and plunges forward. He lowers himself to the ground and he grabs Sherlock’s wrist to search for a pulse, but the woman is there with him and she covers his hand with hers and tries to interfere. John’s grip loosens and he releases Sherlock’s wrist which falls slack to the ground. John stands, but instantly collapses against the lady that is keeping him away from Sherlock. He sinks to his knees. 

“Let me just – please.” He breathes in sheer defeat.

A stretcher is being rolled outside and medical staff turn Sherlock over from his sideway position, exposing his blood-streaked face. His dark curls stick to the ground where they lie in the puddle of fresh blood that leaks from his broken skull. John knows the trauma.

“Oh Jesus no. God no.”


	2. The Holmes Conspiracy

Sherlock falls through the first two layers of bags and bounces back slightly as the force of the impact subsides. He groans softly. The landing in the lorry hurts more than he has anticipated, despite the fact that the truck had been packed with stacks of laundry bags from Barts, acting as one big landing cushion. He hypothesises that a fall from this height could have easily killed him, even with the relative soft landing, and that he is lucky to be alive, so he muses that an insignificant amount of discomfort is inevitable. The lorry pulls up the moment Sherlock lands and he scoffs under his breath. He keeps very still despite the painful tingling sensation in his limbs. Inwardly he pleads for everyone to do their assigned jobs correctly, this scheme is no longer in his hands. He has to put his trust in other people. Something he knows he does with great difficulty. 

After travelling for about fifteen minutes the lorry stops in a deserted alleyway, deducing by the lack of light and the surrounding building above him as he gazes up. This signals Sherlock to get up and move. He is glad for it, he was not comfortable and already his muscles are starting to ache from the impact of the fall. He feels fortunate though that the lorry was packed with laundry from the hospital instead of waste bags, and therefore smelling of disinfect rather than decaying food. He climbs out of the truck, slips the driver two fifty pound notes without looking at him, _homeless network,_ and gets into the black car that had stopped behind him as soon as he disembarked from the lorry. 

A woman sits next to him, she looks up from her mobile phone. Sherlock identifies it as a Samsung Galaxy. The woman, Mycroft's loyal subject, has obviously advanced from the Blackberry which she had used a few years prior. She smiles tightly at him. “Mr. Holmes send his regards, sir.”

“I’m sure he does.“ Sherlock retorts, looking out of the tinted window of the BMW. 

He rolls his stiff shoulders, hissing as the joints crack. His neck hurts as the muscles pull. Anthea holds out a bottle of water and a smaller dark flask of pain killers for him. Sherlock takes them and she returns to her mobile phone, he does not ask for the substance of the pills because the answer is obvious. Codeine.

“One at the time Mr. Holmes.” She says and he snorts defiantly as he breaks the seal of the bottle and unscrews it, taking a large swallow of water. He opens the flask and shakes two pills into his palm. Anthea quirks an eyebrow at him and he rolls his eyes before slipping one of the pills back into the flask. He grumbles a not quite word as deposits the medication onto his tongue and swallows it with a swig of water. 

Anthea shifts forward slightly, digging her hand (her hand is unneeded here)into her handbag, and she retrieves a transparent bag with several objects. A passport, a mobile phone and various cards, including a debit and credit card and a drivers’ licence. She starts talking as he closes his bottle of water. “Mr. Holmes told me to give you this. Your new identity, with corresponding passport. Regarding your phone, your former mobile number has been transferred to your new mobile phone. As have the pin numbers of your former debit and credit cards.” He glances sideways as she speaks and eyes the bag intently. She hands it to him and Sherlock takes it from her. 

He opens the seal and surveys his new identity. “Timothy Ventham, oh dull.” He breathes. Really, Mycroft has exceeded himself this time. He takes out his brand new Iphone 4S and turns it around a few times, inspecting the device through fully. 

“And my former phone?”

“I have been informed that it has been removed from Saint Bartholomew’s hospital. Together with the body of James Moriarty.” She tells him as she continues to type on her phone. 

“Excellent.”

He presses the home button and slides the bar to unlock the homescreen. He checks his contacts, all are present. Also John’s. 

_John._

“GPS tracking has been disabled, in case you were wondering.” She says, not looking up from her what’s app conversation. “Maximum security has been activated, the network cannot be hacked. You are safe to use your own name whilst using the device.”

He eyes her curiously. “Indeed I was.” He smirks. “I can see why he enjoys your company.”

She peeks at him from out of the corner of her eye. “You are too modest Mr. Holmes.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “I am to take you to a secret location outside the city.” 

“Fine.”

_Making my way out of London. -SH_

_Moriarty’s body has been removed. Your mobile phone has been retrieved. We are stripping it now. –MH_

_Yes your charming assistant informed me. Make sure it returns to John, he might suspect. –SH_

_It will be taken care of. You have been officially declared dead. Your body has been identified by Miss Hooper. She is going through the paperwork at this very moment. – MH_

Sherlock stares at the text. That’s it than, he is dead to the world now. Nothing but a memory. Nothing but a corpse to mourn over. Sentiment. Why do people care so much. 

_John._

He feels dizzy and a little sick. It is uncomfortable. The medication is making him feel groggy and his head slants backwards against the headrest as his eyelids begin to droop. He feels his limbs relax. Good. They are hurting. He send one last text before he pockets his phone into his coat.

_Thank you Molly. – SH_


	3. The Loaded Hearse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’ve seen men die before, good men – friends of mine. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’ll sleep fine tonight._ ~ John Watson

Wednesday 6th of July 2011

Rain splatters down the huge windows and it’s distracting. Lightning flashes and inwardly John counts until the accompanying rumble of thunder. Four seconds. Less than a mile away then. John stares into the nothingness that is currently his therapists office. 

“Why today?” She asks him and he blinks, as if he hasn’t noticed Ella is atually here with in the room. 

John eyes her incredulously, his face not losing its frail composition. “You want to hear me say it?” 

“Eighteen month since our last appointment.” She says with a sharp edge to her voice.

“You read the papers?” John asks a sarcastic tilt to his voice.

“Sometimes.”

“And you watch telly?” He pauses. “You know why I’m here. I’m here because -” John winces slightly as he gestures with his hand. What happened to him is obvious, he sees no reason why he has to say it out loud.  
In an attempt to coax John out of his closed shell Ella’s leans forward. “What happened, John?” She asks him tentatively.

“Sher-“ John begins, but he does not have to hear to utter the words. 

“You need to get it out.”

John nods and eyes the celling. He knows. He needs to confirm it to himself, if he ever wants the gaping wound in his heart to heal. He does not want this wound to heal. Ever.

“My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.” 

John cringes and tears escape his grief-sore eyes. He covers his face with his hand and shudders, weeping silently.

“Very good John.” Ella says as stands up and prepares a cup of tea for the both of them, leaving John alone for a moment. She hands him a cup of tea when she returns and they drink in silence for a moment. “The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn’t say it.” She asks.

John wheezes. “Yeah.”

“ Say it now.” She offers.

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t.“

He leaves soon after he uttered those last words. Ella looks at him with her large dark eyes and nods, giving him permission to leave. He does not make a follow-up appointment. 

 

Thursday 7th of July 2011

_Sherlock. -MH_

_I will attend my own funeral. -SH_

_Do you think it wise, Sherlock? -MH_

_I want to see him one last time. –SH_

~~*~~

John and Harry have a row. She insists he celebrates his birthday despite what happened. But John is having none of it. 

She approaches him breakfast “We don’t have to celebrate it hugely. Just a few friends.”

“I am not interested.” John says as he chews over a piece of plain toast, skimming the Daily Telegraph. Why is he living with his sister again? Ah yes, the flat. Of course.

“We could go and have dinner. Just the two of us?”

John gives her an icily stare. “Harry. I am burying Sherlock tomorrow.” He says coldly. Why does that woman not understand that he is not in a festive mood. He does not want to celebrate that he is outliving Sherlock. He probably never wants to celebrate his birthday ever again. It will forever be linked to – that devastating day. Jesus fucking Christ. 

Harry ponders that over for a bit. “We could – “ She begins but John slams the newspaper down and roars an angry, “No”. Harry flinches and looks up at him through wide eyes. John sighs and says “I know you are trying to help. But please, no.” as gently as he can. 

Harry nods and they resume their silent breakfast together. 

 

Friday 8th of July 2011

 

It was decided that Sherlock Holmes was to be buried during a private ceremony. A handful of people were invited, Sherlock Holmes didn’t have many friends. Yet all of them turned up, although be it for the sake of John. 

John didn’t think he was ready to face either Mycroft or Lestrade, since they had both disappointed him deeply the day before Sherlock’s fall. But John Watson isn’t one to bear a grudge so he decided to rest his case. It’s what Sherlock would have wanted anyway. _Don’t fuss._

The ride in the cab to the cemetery is silent, rueful and awkward. John does not feel like talking. Not now. Not ever again.

He and Mrs. Hudson get out of the cab, John pays the cabby and together they walk to the courtyard. Mycroft stands there. Poking his umbrella at a small weed that’s growing between the gravel. He looks up and approaches them. He’s wearing a long overcoat over his expensive suit. It makes him look even more inhuman than normal. A shiver creeps down John’s spine.

“You have a nerve to turn up.” John say and he flashes a smirk but his body posture is defiant as he walks up to him, shoulders squared. 

Mycroft eyes him solemnly. “He was my brother, John. I understand your anger –“

John holds up a hand and shakes his head. “Don’t.” And Mycroft’s eyes narrow understandably. 

And as John had anticipated, he shares a very hard and cold stare with Mycroft as they shake hands before Mycroft grips his right shoulder with his right hand. “My sincere condolences, John.” He says and John huffs a “Same” through gritted teeth. “I’m glad you came.”

“Sherlock would have loathed it.” Mycroft answers. 

“I’m sure he would have, yes.” John smiles meekly.

Mycroft expression is unreadable, mask firmly in place, so John glances away and he clears his throat. He hears the cracking of gravel behind him and he turns around to find Molly and Lestrade approaching them. They look grave. Molly avoids direct eye contact with John, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He kisses Molly twice on her cheek and shares a brotherly hug with Lestrade, all business of the week before forgiven. 

Mike and Harry are here, even Sarah has turned up along with a few other of John’s and Sherlock’s acquaintances and friends. John receives words of sympathy and comfort as they gather around the loaded hearse.

The walk from the hearse to Sherlock’s grave is very silent, John carries the front left of the black wooden coffin. The ceremony is peaceful and few words are spoken as Sherlock’s coffin is lowered into its resting place. A bouquet of red roses, with two white ones in the middle, decorates the top. John brought it with him, he feels pathetic for not being able to do anything else. Yet, he doesn’t want to do anything else. Never again. He can’t help but feel that he is burying a part of his soul along with Sherlock. Another chapter of the life that is John Watson ends right here at this very moment. 

His shoulders are squared and he takes calm deep breaths. he is in full soldier mode, deliberately standing at attention. Internally he is screaming, begging for emotional release. 

He glances up and stares at his reflection in onyx marble tombstone with Sherlock name is carved in white letters. Sherlock’s birth and dying date in smaller letters signature the base. John figured Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated it if people were able to deduce facts about his life, albeit in a limited extent. ‘As if they could, John.’ A name and date would be sufficient.

John stares hard as earth, dark with moisture, covers the coffin inch by inch. The flowers have disappeared. He and Mrs. Hudson stand together and watch as people place their tokens and flowers at the foot of the grave. Mike pats him on the shoulder and Sarah and Molly squeeze his hand reassuringly. Harry hugs him and whispers; “I’ll see you in a bit.”

People start to make their way down the courtyard. Some of them are going home, others are seeking refuge at the church. John doesn’t care. He doesn’t speak. His eyes are fixed upon the dark patch of earth that is slowly rising to ground level. 

Mrs. Hudson and he are alone as a neatly carved layer of turf is placed upon the earth and seals the grave. The large conifer, which John cannot identify, stands proud and a little voice in the back of his mind starts worrying about the possibility that resin might drip from the branches upon the black marble. 

‘I don’t care John.’

Mrs. Hudson looks up at him and squeezes his hand. John nods silently and together they place the flowers and tokens at the foot of the black stone. 

They retreat and for another moment they stand in perfect silence before Mrs Hudson breaks it with her small voice. 

“There’s all the stuff. All the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I take it to a school. Would you- ?”

“I can’t go back at the flat, again. Not at the moment. I’m angry.”

“It’s okay John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s how he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns at half past one in the morning. Bloody specimens in my fridge, imagine, keeping bodies where there’s food. And the fighting. Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on –“ Mrs. Hudson voice breaks in frustrated grief as John tries to shush her, equally frustrated. 

“Yeah listen, I’m not actually that angry. Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone to, you know.” She sniffles and pets his arms as she turns around and walks away to leaves John alone for a bit. 

He’s glad for it. 

“Umm.” He glances round, making sure Mrs. Hudson is out of earshot.

“Mmmh. You - you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human - human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there.” He says with utter confidence. He will always believe. No matter what Sherlock said. 

He walk towards the stone and touches it with his right hand. The marble is hard and cold under his fingers and he taps it delicately as if to convince himself he is touching Sherlock. It doesn’t work. Sherlock may look cold and hard, but when John touched him he was also so very soft and warm. He takes an uncertain breath. He needs to get it out.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

He turns around and intents to walk away, but something holds him back. He abruptly spins around and starts pleading desperately. “But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be - dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”

John weeps. He weeps in earnest, finally allowing himself for the grief to take him over. When his silent sobbing eventually subsides he wipes his eyes and he surveys himself in the black marble. He gives a short nod and turns sharply to the left, like a subordinate soldier taking leave from his superior officer. Saying goodbye to Sherlock in his own manner. A farewell to their life together. To their friendship. To their love. 

A bittersweet farewell. No proper goodbye. John’s subconscious mind battles with the realisation that Sherlock is gone. He just cannot believe Sherlock has taken the liberty.  
 _How could you. Sherlock, what have you done. To yourself. To me. You selfish bastard._

John feels utterly helpless as he walks back to Mrs. Hudson, who is waiting for him near the church. 

 

Little does John know that he is being watched. Hidden in plain sight beneath a large oak tree stands Sherlock Holmes. His eyes thoughtful yet determined as he takes in the sight of John for one last time. Satisfied that John is reasonably well, he surveys the scene with a last glance before he turns around and walks away. 

_Making my way from the cemetery. –SH_

_A plane awaits you at Heathrow tomorrow 8:30 a.m. sharp. It will transport you to Eindhoven. All the arrangements are made. –MH_

_Fine. Keep an eye on John. Keep him from harm’s way. –SH_

_Two eyes. As often as I can spare them. –MH_

_I appreciate it. –SH_

_That is the closest you will ever come to thanking me, is it not? No matter. Destroy Moriarty’s web. Moran is not to know that you are alive. Be careful. –MH_

_Idiot. –SH_

 

He walks around the church, assuring that he is out of eyeshot from those that deem him dead. He waits a for a few minutes, standing obscured by a larch birch tree. Molly walks out from the church door, she is wiping her face. She has obviously been crying. 

“You are not a religious person.” He says, low and soft, but within earshot.

She shrieks and gasps before she spins around, clutching at her breast. “What are you doing here?” She hisses. She looks around, Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if he would approach her when she’s surrounded by people. Lestrade appears from the chapel a few seconds later. 

“Are you all right Molly?” He asks concerned.

Molly looks at him, wide eyed, like a deer caught in traffic light. “Greg! Yes. Fine, It was just a – a squirrel, yes. It ran straight past me, I took a fright.”  
“Right.” Lestrade smirks. “Well I’m off, do you want to ride back with me?”

Molly looks back to where Sherlock stood less than two minutes ago. He’s gone. She begins to speak before looking back at Lestrade. “No, thank you Greg.” She furrows her brow. “I think I’ll have a walk, ponder some things over, you know.”

Lestrade nods sympathetically. “Of course.” He says and kisses her cheeks. “Take care.”

“Take care, Greg.” She whispers, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. 

He cups her jaw with his hand and gives it a light squeeze before turning around and walking back to the courtyard. 

Molly watches him go for a moment. She turns around and looks straight into the dark coat of Sherlock Holmes, who had positioned himself right behind her. 

“Christ, Sherlock!” she gasps once again.

Sherlock grins lightly but his eyes are sad. He turns around and walks away. He is pleased to hear her following him, trying to catch up with his long strides.

“You shouldn’t be here.” She whispers crossly yet concerned. “Are you mad?”

Satisfied that they are both properly out of sight he stops and she eyes him intently. 

“I needed to see him.” Sherlock admits. 

“John.” She breathes and she nods understandably, wrapping her arms around herself. Sherlock feels uncomfortable. She always seem to know what he’s thinking. _How? Yet she is astonishingly ignorant. Like most people. Idiots._ Sherlock thinks. 

“What if he sees you?” She asks.

“He won’t see me.”

“I can see you.” She says.

“Yes, because I choose you to see me.” Sherlock hates to admit it to himself but he’s feeling rather awkward, small talk is certainly not something he enjoys or rather good at. 

A silence falls between them. They both have their hands stuffed in their pockets, Molly has her eyes diverted to the ground, she is rocking on her heels. “So, what now then?” She ask as she looks up at him. 

“I am to fly to Eindhoven tomorrow morning, of all places.” 

“Eindhoven?” She repeats. “Why there?”

“Mycroft suggested to start with the continent. He deems Germany houses the majority of Moriarty’s network. I contradicted him. Yet I shall need to gather all the facts before drawing any conclusions. Moriarty’s web is vast, its threads spread throughout Europe, possibly even worldwide, I am not certain. I shall work closely with the local authorities to clear out his associates. I have some idea of where several of his associates might be hiding. Without their shepherd the herd has become vulnerable, they will make mistakes and I have the proper advantage of being believed to be dead. It will be relatively easy to hunt them out from their lairs and into the open. It will be dangerous. If I let any of them know that I am alive they might hurt the people that I hold most dear. Moriarty’s men, and women, constitutes of mercenaries, trained assassins and thieves.“

“Sounds like your kind of thing then.” She smiles and Sherlock chuckles softly.

Molly looks away and Sherlock cocks his head. He does not understand her. Why? “Listen – “ she begins, but she falters. She pokes the ground with the tip of her shoe toe. “Would you care to have dinner and stay over tonight? I presume you’re departing from Heathrow?” She queries and Sherlock nods. “Right, well you could easily leave from my place to the airport. That is, if you’re free of course. I mean – “

“Of course.” Sherlock says stochastically.

“Really? I mean – great!” She smiles broadly at him, her eyes are still slightly watery. “I suspect you want to go home and collect your luggage.”

“Home.” Sherlock repeats. “I shall collect my equipment yes, but I shall not go home.” His face is blank and incomprehensible. 

“Oh God, sorry.” Molly pleads. She looks at him, his eyes are pale and sad. “I’ll see you tonight then?”

Sherlock nods and together they walk back to the main entrance by an alternative and safe route, before each taking their own way back to Central London.

~~*~~

Later that evening the cab stops in front of Molly Hooper’s residence. Sherlock gets out and rings the bell. As he enters Molly’s apartment he discovers two things about her. Firstly, his deductions about her were nearly right. She has two cats instead of three. _There is always something_ he scoffs inwardly. 

Sherlock glances about the room, taking in new data. Secondly, she is so ordinary that it’s almost dull. But then again, so are most people. 

Her flat smells of lasagne, which is currently baking in the oven, and one of her cate _ginger, obese, male, sterilised_ comes forward to inspect the stranger that entered the flat. Sherlock eyes it suspiciously.

“Don’t mind Toby. He’s fond of strangers, apparently.” She says as she pushes past him and into the kitchen. “We’re having lasagne if that’s all right. My mother’s recipe. It’s very good. Oh and this is Mr. Darcy.” She points at a raven-coloured cat that is purged upon the kitchen table. 

Sherlock Holmes is not fond of cats. 

Molly turns around to find Sherlock standing a bit too close for comfort behind her. She stands up straight and smiles. But it falters when he makes no attempt to back away.

“Sherlock? Are you all ri--“

“We could you know.”

She laughs awkwardly, clearly confused by this sudden statement. “Sorry?” 

“Sleep together. I wouldn’t mind. Clearly you want to-“

She slaps him across the cheek in a swift motion. 

“It would be fitting.” He replies darkly and insulted, his hand soothing his stricken cheek.

“I am dead to him.” Sherlock reminds her in a cold voice that could have frozen a pond. "It's not as if he won't sleep with others." 

“How can you say that? Did you actually love him?” She hisses. Realisation of what she just said hits her and she clasps her palm over her mouth. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” She whispers.

Sherlock says nothing, just stares past her. In his heart he know he loves John, even though his mind denies the emotion. John certainly loves him, he has told him so. More than once. Quite frequently actually. Sherlock said it too. But it doesn’t cover what John truly means to him. It is far more than just love. It is more than any word in the English language can describe. Sherlock does not know how to express that feeling. He doubts whether he ever can. They never told one another how much they mean to each other. And now Sherlock wonders whether John will ever hear it. 

The third thing Sherlock discovers about Molly Hooper is that is isn’t ordinary at all. And it’s a grave miscalculation on Sherlock’s behalf.

They eat together and spent the evening on her sofa, watching frightful detective series. It reminds Sherlock of home.

Sherlock does not wake Molly when he leaves for Heathrow very early in the morning.


	4. The Wounded Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to Baker Street two weeks after Sherlock's fall.

Saturday 16th of July 2011

For the next two weeks after Sherlock death, John unconsciousness expects to wake up next to or curled around a warm body. But as his slumbers fade in the bright summer morning light, realisation hits him like a bucket of cold water every single time. Today however, he wakes up in the middle of the night with a start. He’s covered in a sheen of cold sweat and he’s shivering despite the warm temperature in the bedroom. He presses his head back into his pillow, an arm thrown above his head and he weeps silently, gasping for breath. 

The nightmares have returned.

The first time John experienced a nightmare of this intensity was after he got shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan. Due to the severity of his injury, he was treated in the open before being transferred to a proper hospital. There he recovered from enteric fever and it was in the hospital bed that he would wake, covered in sweat and limbs twisted in the sheets. Both he and the nurses blamed the fever, but he dreamed about the war every single night after he was discharged. Occasionally the dreams turned into nightmares. And when he woke up, he would be alone.

That was until he met Sherlock. Sherlock happened to him and his mind was otherwise occupied.The dreams about Afghanistan subsided and the nightmares became less severe. 

Now, however, he finds himself alone once more.

His nightmares vary, but they are often combinations of Sherlock falling and recollections of the war. In this particular one Sherlock is falling from a cloudless paleblue Afghan sky into the nothingness of the endless rusty orange-brown plains. There are no trees, just rocks and sand and its vastness reaches to far beyond the horizon. John watches helplessly as both he and Sherlock get shot in the shoulder. He jerks awake just before Sherlock hits the ground, but the force of his sudden awakening feels much the same as if he fell from a great height himself.

With his breathing irregular and a sob of horror forming in his throat, he forces himself to open his eyes. He stares at the ceiling as his heart hammers painfully in his chest.

The room, however, isn’t empty. His eyes widen as he sees two familiar pale eyes observing him from the dark of Harry’s spare room.

“I am dreaming.” He whispers hoarsely.

Sherlock shakes his head. _“No, you are not.”_

John props himself up upon his elbows, staring at the figure. “I’m going mad.”

_“Yes.”_ Sherlock says.

“What are you doing here?” John asks bitterly.

Sherlock smiles. _“I’m the shadow of a memory in the corner of the room. And the reason you wake up in the morning.”_

John sits up straight. He looks away. “I wish I would sleep. Like you.”

A moment of silence passes, the sounds of the London night traffic filling the quiet of the room.

“Let me touch you?” John asks lifting his hand to meet nothing but thin air. He frowns at his hand and meets Sherlocks eyes with a desperate hope.

Sherlock shakes his head. _“No.”_

“You’re not really here are you.” John says as he rubs a hand across his eyes instead, getting rid of the sticky sleep that is forming there. “How come I can see you?”

Sherlock ignores him. _“You have to go back. Mrs. Hudson needs you.”_

John laughs bitterly, drawing up his knees. “What do you know about needing people.”

Sherlock’s ghostly figure huffs in defence. He walks over to the bed and sits down at the far right corner. John can’t feel the bed dipping. “I’m losing my marbles.” he says, shaking his head. He purses his lips and looks away, clearly agitated by Sherlock’s remark. He has no right to tell him what to do after that…

_“I know you are considering.”_

“Get the fuck out of my head, Sherlock.”

_“I’m not in your head. It’s too placid, too straightforward. You are my heart, remember.”_

“Yeah, of course. And now I’m losing my mind because you, Sherlock, took that away from me.” John shouts. 

_“Temper.”_

“Piss off, Sherlock. Leave me alone.”

Sherlock obeys and John finds himself alone in the dark, once again.

~~*~~

“Are you sure, John?” Harry asks as she watches her brother walking down the hall, his old army bag and two smaller ones hanging from his shoulders. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” she asks as he wraps his arms around her in an awkward hug, his bags getting in the way.

“Should have dropped the bags.” He huffs and draws back a few moments later, kissing her cheek. “Mrs. Hudson needs me to go through his things at any rate.”

“But what about you? I mean –“ She begins, but he shushes her, pressing a finger to her lips. “You’ve never worried about me much, don’t start to pretend you do now.”   
She glares at him, “gwet yourw fingeh off my mouthw,” she growles as she makes to snap at light. john quickly retracts his finger. “What made you do that?” She asks, eyebrows raised. But John’s posture is an open book to her. Determined and stubborn. She gives in with a sigh. “Fine then. Go on, your cab is probably waiting.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Harry.”

“John, don’t be ridiculous.” She says as he opens the door and waves her goodbye.

~~*~~

As soon as John gets into the cab he knows it’s too soon to return to Baker Street. But he has to be honest with himself. He has to return hasn’t he. He can’t just leave like Sherlock. Abandon Baker Street? _No,_ John thinks. 

The cab turns right and as they pass the Baker Street tube station, John’s heart skips a beat. John feels a pang of trepidation wrenching through him. He has felt it growing ever since he left Harry’s. As the cab pulls up outside 221B he takes a deep breath, before opening the door. He gets his luggage out of the cab and pays the driver. After stowing his wallet back into the back pocket of his jeans, he watches the cab drive away. Looking up to the window of their flat, John picks up his bags and starts toward the front door. He unlocks it and shoves himself through. 

John walks up the staircase, cautiously opens the door to the parlour and feels a surge of relief to find that it looks much the same since he has left it, almost two weeks ago. But the flat is tidy and quiet. Far too quiet.   
He drops his bags to the floor and glances toward the kitchen. The table is packed with boxes. He vaguely remembers Mrs. Hudson mentioning putting all of Sherlock’s science equipment in boxes. She is clearly not sure what to do with them and she needs John to decide. He passes the too-tidy kitchen, and indecisively pushes the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open.

As always, Sherlock’s bedroom is neat and clean, John steps forward and leans against the windowsill. His eyes roam over the room, taking in every single detail. Memories of the past flooding back and ghosting in front of his open eyes. He grips the sill hard with his hands, dropping his head between his shaking shoulders and breathing hard through his open mouth. John squeezes his eyes shut so tight his lids hurt when he opens them again. 

He takes a brave step towards the bed and sits down, careful not to rumple it. He stares into the distance for a few minutes, his mind blank. His grief for Sherlock gnaws painfully in his chest. John realises that he has returned to Baker Street too soon. He is far from ready to give all this, that is, was, Sherlock, a place to rest. 

But he knows full well that the first step has to be taken by himself. He turns his head to the right and stares at Sherlock’s pillows. 

A single dark hair lies on the crisp white linen. John’s hand trembles as he picks it up and inspects it carefully. He places it down on the nightstand beside the bed and lets himself fall back against the cushions. He turns so that his nose is buried deep into the pillow and he inhales sharply.

It still smells of Sherlock. The entire room smells of Sherlock, which provides enough fuel for more memories to return. Memories of their friendship, of their evenings spent together on the sofa, of their thrill for danger, of their lovemaking. John rolls over onto his back and weeps silently into the cushion.

~~*~~

Roughly half an hour later, John wakes from a restless doze to a gentle knock on the bedroom door. He groans softly and blinks up at Mrs. Hudson through puffy and sticky eyes that refuse to fully open.   
“Oh dear John, I thought I heard you come in about an hour ago. I decided to go and see if you were all right.”

He stretches, sits up, checks his watch and rubs his eyes before meeting hers. “Yes I’m fine, I think. Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” He says as she hands him a cup of tea. She sits down next to him on the bed. 

“I’m happy you’ve returned. You have returned, haven’t you? I saw your luggage in the sitting room. I wouldn’t know what to do if you moved out so soon after, you know.” John shifts and places his right hand over her knee, his left holding the cup. “I’m not going anywhere, Mrs. Hudson.” he assures her.

They sit for a moment in silence. John finishes his tea and stands up. “Well, then. Better get sorted.”

“Are you going through Sherlock’s things?” She asks, clearly offering help if it is needed, but John shakes his head. 

“No, not yet. I’ll probably return the scientific equipment to Bart’s some time this week. But I don’t want to go through his clothes or personal belongings. Not just yet.”

“Are you sure you won’t, John? Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months and those into years. You cannot hold onto the past forever, you know.” A little harsh, John thinks, but she has a point. Yet his mind is set. 

“I know that. But I will be fine.”

He is not going to do it. Not yet.

In the evening John decides that he is better off settling in his old room upstairs again. Every single thing in the flat reminds him of Sherlock. And he admits his finds it rather unsettling. Sherlock had moved in already when he came to live at Baker Street and the few possessions that John took with him he either kept in his own room or got swallowed by Sherlock’s greater collection of books and ornaments. 

He occasionally sees Sherlock form in the flat that day, but he’s not certain whether that is because he is indeed losing his mind, or because he expects Sherlock to walk right into him from every corner of the room. The familiar scent of home does help to sooth his rattled nerves, though, and by midnight he settles into his armchair with a brandy and some scientific literature. 

~~*~~

A few days later, when John is watching an episode of Pointless on the telly while eating Thai take away, he is confronted by the Sherlock that seems to haunt his sensory system once again. 

_“You haven’t gone through my clothing yet.”_ Sherlock states as he sits down next to John on the sofa. 

John’s half distracted by the telly as he swallows a bite of noodles. “No, I have not.”

_“Why?”_

“Sherlock.” John sighs as he tries to concentrate on the programme. 

_“Sentiment?”_

John makes a low appreciative sound. “Sentiment.”

Sherlock sounds thoughtful. _“I see.”_

“No, you don’t.”

_“No, I don’t.”_ Sherlock admits.

“Shut up and watch the show, Sherlock.” John grins and nudged Sherlock’s arm.

And they do just that. 

Mrs. Hudson is standing in the door opening, her eyes sad and worried as she watches John. 

~~*~~

John is limping again. 

It started as small throbbing sensations. Now they have developed into stabbing shoots of pain, whenever he is lying down, sitting, standing or walking. Painkillers barely help. 

John doesn’t sleep well at night. He wakes up every now and then in the middle of the night. He sits awake contemplating his situation in the dark. In front of his eyes Sherlock often stands in a corner of the room, looking over him. You might just actually call it staring. That demanding piercing glance that used to look straight through John’s soul. John stares back at him defiantly before he gives up and goes back to bed. 

John is not taking good care of himself. He can’t be bothered to eat. Not because he isn’t hungry, because hell he is. He can’t see the point of eating, that’s all. He can’t be arsed to walk, no; limp, to the shop. He hasn’t got a job, he doesn’t see the people he cares about. All he does, day in, day out, is grieving over Sherlock. 

He’s devastated. His life is utterly dull. And so his psychosomatic limp decided to return. Which altogether make John rather more miserable and desperate for some sort of attention he doesn’t necessarily want. 

He has seen his therapist Ella twice since Sherlock’s death. She of course encouraged him to continue his blog. But John knows that he won’t. His last entry was brief and to the point. 

There’s no point in me keeping up this blog anymore. He was my best friend and I will always believe in him.

Words have reached his ears, he has a laptop after all, of a group of people who call themselves the Watson’s Warriors, people claiming to fight John’s battle against the press. People that did not believe the newspaper reports of Sherlock’s fake genius. People that believe that Jim Moriarty is real and that Richard Brooke is a fraud. John has glanced over their website and it’s full of theories on what might have happened that day Sherlock fell and gatherings of support to prove Sherlock’s innocence. What strikes John most is the variety of nationalities of his so called ‘warriors’. People from all over the World support his claim. One of the blokes who runs the organisation has tried to contact John earlier on, but John explained that he doesn’t want to come out with a definite story yet. He doesn’t think that he ever will. 

_“They are all idiots.”_ Sherlock says from his armchair as John is reading the newspaper across him that particular morning.

“Who are?” He asks without looking at his imaginary Sherlock. 

_“People.”_ Sherlock says shortly. 

John makes an affirmative noise that doesn’t sound very convincing. 

_“Your Watson’s Warriors. Please.”_ Sherlock drags the last word out of his mouth as if he is disgusted by the idea.

Clearing his throat John slowly folds the newspaper and rubs a finger against his chin. “Well, at least I do not stand alone.”

_“I told you the truth, John. It’s no good trying to convince people otherwise.”_

John takes a long time contemplating his next move. 

“Then why did you kill yourself Sherlock? Proving a point? Risking your life trying to prove you are clever?” John is angry. Very angry.

_“Do not change the subject, John.”_ Sherlock snarls warningly.

“No, no. I have every right to fucking know!” John shouts as he loses his temper. “You insufferable fucking git.” He stands up, the newspaper falling from his lap to the ground forgotten and stomps over to Sherlock who shrinks back into his chair, but to find the cold leather of Sherlock’s empty armchair meeting his fist. His leg buckles under the strain and he sinks down unto his knees, fingers scratching over green leather, desperate to get a hold of Sherlock. But he isn’t there. He is never there. It’s all in his mind.

And John hates himself for that.


	5. The Three Continent Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's reputation as Three Continent Watson commences. But someone interferes. This chapter is nsfw.

Thursday 4th of August 2011

_Care to join me for dinner? – Stamford_

_Yeah, why not mate. Where do we meet? – JW_

_The Glad. 5 pm. – Stamford_

John pays the cabby and looks up at the _‘Gladstone Arms’,_ one of his favourite pubs in London. He used to visit this place often when he was younger. It was, and still is known for its live music and gig nights. God he certainly knew his business around this place. He and Bill used to chase around the girls here. Casanova’s.

“Mike!” John extends his hand as he walks towards the man sitting at the bar with a pint of Red Stripe. John admits to himself that it feels good to get out of the flat for a change.

Mike and John exchange a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you.” Mike says and pats him on the shoulder. “And you.” John says, smiling fondly.

“Would you prefer to sit at a table? Or stand here for a bit?” Mike asks. John hesitates for a split second. His fond expression changing into a grimace. “Sit down I think. It’s just. My leg.” He says absent-mindedly. Mike nods in sympathy and halts a waiter.

The waiter leads them into the pub garden where couples and groups are seated and enjoying various courses and drinks. When they are sorted out and both tucking into their meals Mike carefully broaches the subject. “So, how have you been?”

John lowers his fork, chews the question over before he swallows and stares past Mike.

“Yeah good. Fine.” He says shortly.

“Mmh, still living in Baker Street I gather?” Mike prompts.

“Yes, I’ll be having a bit of trouble with paying the rent in the near future. Sherlock left me his money of course. But it’s not a bottomless well. Mrs. Hudson has been very generous, but I told her not to be. Mycroft has offered to pay for Sherlock’s share, of course.

“Did you take on his offer?” Mike asks.

“No, I told him to go fuck himself.”

Mike huffs a laugh at that and John can’t help but smile.

“It would feel like betraying Sherlock if I did.”

“Always the loyal friend. Sounds like the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not that John Watson.”

They eat for a moment in silence. John asks after Mike’s wife and kids, and his teaching at Barts. He laughs at Mike telling them he still hates those bright young ones.

“To be quite frank, I need to be looking for a job.” John admits. “I quit working as a G.P. ages ago. I wasn’t able to combine Sherlock’s schedule with the hours at the surgery.”

“Not to mention that you are overqualified for a mere G.P.” Mike catches his eye. “John, you are a surgeon, why don’t you apply at a position equal to your qualifications? They are always looking for experienced trauma surgeons, even in London. Especially in London, I’d say.”

“I wouldn’t be able to keep it going.” John says, gesturing at his leg. “You know just as well as I do that the bullet left me with nerve damage, I lost the fine motoring skills in my dominant hand.” He doesn’t mention that the physiotherapy sessions had helped a great deal, and that his hand is actually fine as rain again, but John still remembers the tremors. “Besides, I’ve started therapy again. Who would want to employ a mentally scarred surgeon.” The words are uttered without the intention to say them. John looks vaguely annoyed with himself. His mouth sets in a tight narrow line.

“John, I’ve known you for a long time. There’s a reason you joined the army. Besides your willingness to help people. You need danger in your life. A challenge. Remember at Uni, you were one of the most wanted rugby players. Your limp, and please forgive me, disappeared when Sherlock came into your life, don’t think I didn’t notice. I honestly think the trauma centre can provide that thrill you crave for, mentally and physically.”

“You want to make a change John. You always have.” Mike continues before taking a bite of his steak and ale pie. “You want to help people.” He says between a mouthful.

John cracks a slight smile, sighs and leans back in his seat. “I will think about it.”

Mike smiles a satisfied smile. “Good. Trust me John, I didn’t let you astray last time I suggested something.” He winks at John.

John smiles yet there is something sad in his eyes. “No, you didn’t.” He sighs melancholically. “You didn’t.”

The following week John has a job interview at Royal London Hospital for a position as a trauma surgeon at the Emergency Department.

 

~~*~~

John H. Watson seems to be like any other ordinary bloke as he walks by on the street. When you ask him how he’s faring, he’ll usually answer with: “I’m fine.” 

These answers range widely from cheerful to flat-out bad-tempered ones. He is willing to talk openly about Sherlock to anyone who asks these days and he is dating people again. He has a challenging job, made some new friends, has regular sex and has to admit that he could actually feel happy. 

Truth to be told: John is far from happy. 

John H. Watson is anything _but_ fine.

He’s downright miserable. And the downs usually occur after the sex. 

John realises his old army reputation as _'Three Continent Watson'_ within just four weeks after taking the vacancy for a trauma surgeon. The work is marvelous. No other word could describe t better. John was pleasantly surprised that he passed the physical exam, which he had to take to determine whether he acquired the physical demands. He wasn’t written off just yet, he thought after he has received the call that he had been accepted at Royal London Hospital. 

His limp had disappeared after his first week of shifts. Something for which he is eternally grateful. His body and mind crave the thrill and the exposure to dangerous situations. The fact that he is able to save people’s lives by resurrecting his own is an incredible gift. 

And then there are his new colleagues. Especially the nurses. Suffice it to say, John flirts, and he flirts a lot. He feels confident and in his element here in the department. The women smile coyly at him and the men laugh along with him. Everyone likes John Watson. 

For the first time in months, John makes an advance on one his female co-workers and after a few shared kisses, they end up shagging in the meds storage. Completely unprofessional of course, but John doesn’t care. He enjoys it and makes sure his lady revels in it too. But when he arrives home from a long shift he can’t help but feel disgusted and alone. As much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock was on his mind the while he kissed, touched and fucked her. She he was lovely though, soft and curvy, and although it was short and rough, John had ample time to process that it just felt _wrong._

The next day, he observes the wedding band around her finger. John avoids any form of contact with her for the next week. 

About a week later, he goes home with a different female colleague after their first dinner. It was clear that, despite their mutual interests, a relationship is not going to work out for either of them. Yet they consider themselves friends and they like each other. They like each other a lot.

They end up kissing on her sofa after a glass of wine. It's dreadfully cliché. As is the sex. They stumble towards her bedroom while tugging at each other’s clothing. She murmurs sweet declarations of lust in his ear. They strand in her bedroom. John´s shirt is half unbuttoned and they kiss each other hungrily. He moves his mouth to the side of her face and bites her ear playfully before kissing her neck. He removes her bra and moves down her body to kiss her breasts. She moans as he takes her left nipple into his mouth and sucks it gently. His hands caress her back. _She’s too petite, too scrumptious,_ he thinks as he hooks his thumbs into her skirt, then slowly drags it down her hips. She laughs foxily and pushes him towards her bed. 

John watches her from the bed as she steps out of her skirt. At this point she’s wearing nothing but her heels and panties. He lets her straddle his hips. She leans forward and kisses him while they remove John´s shirt. She rides him through the layers of cloth until she is panting heavily. John bucks his hips gently and she moves down his body. 

John arches his back as she unzips his trousers and works them off, before removing his and her own shoes. She drags his pants down and engulfs him in her mouth. John groans as her tongue laps at his glans. She knows what she is doing and John appreciates her skilful actions. For a second he expects to find something short, soft and curly as he moves his hands to weave his fingers through her hair. But he is disappointed to find long, thick and straight locks.   
He whimpers a moan, _Sherlock_ , but she doesn't notice it is not from pleasure. She works his cock with an expert mouth and John forces himself to push Sherlock out of his mind. But he is fighting a lost battle. 

He kneads her scalp, imagining it is Sherlock´s head bobbing up and down his cock. It is Sherlock´s tongue licking at his frenulum. It is Sherlock´s hand tugging gently his balls. It is Sherlock´s hand caressing his stomach. 

She releases him with an obscene popping sound and removes her undergarments. She kisses him again and speaks sweet incoherent words to him. John, stiff upper lipped and all, soldiers on and rolls them both over so that he is on top. His hand travels from her face, her sweet, kind face, lips red from sucking his cock, to her neck. _We didn’t use a condom,_ he realises, _you idiot._ He kneads her breasts and suckles her nipples lightly as his hand descends down into the trimmed nest of curls and he fingers her until she lays trembling and moaning beneath him. It´s been years since he had done this, but it comes rather naturally. 

He looks at her and she nods, reaching in her nightstand drawer for condoms. He puts one on and positions himself at her entrance. She smells musky and sweet. Wrong smell. Wrong everything, he thinks as he mounts her. They fuck in the missionary position only. She moans with each of his thrusts and it´s simultaneously arousing and distracting. John´s mind wanders to Sherlock once again before he can help himself. He makes love to her as if he would have made love to Sherlock. Slow and languid pumps of his hips versus short and fast bucking. In his mind he hears Sherlock grunt and groan, begging him for release. “John, oh yes!” She moans and he snaps back to reality. He finishes her off by thrusting into her and fingering her clit and she clamps her pelvis muscles around him and she drags him over the edge a few erratic thrusts later.

Before John can stop himself he moans Sherlock’s name as he comes. The atmosphere in the room changes in an instant and she stiffens beneath him as he rides out his pleasure. It is not until they both regained their breath and John rolled off her that she asks him.

“It should be none of my business.” She starts carefully and John cringes. “But I rather think it is.” 

A few moments of silence pass. “I’m really sorry.” John says as he awkwardly pulls the condom of his now flaccid penis. “That really was - a bit not good.”

“No. No, it wasn’t.” She agrees. “Perhaps I should be sorry too. “ She offers. “If this wasn’t what you wanted.”

John shakes his head. “No really, it was. It was great. It’s just – it’s just me, not you.” 

“Mmh, yes. I rather think it is. Look, John. I really enjoyed this.” She hesitates. “But perhaps it is a good idea if we don’t see each other again.”

“Yeah.” John croaks. 

They lay side by side in her bed for a twenty odd minutes.

“I think I’d better go.” John says as he sits up. 

“Yes, I think you’d better.” She tells him and he starts collecting his clothing in the dark room. 

He checks his jacket for his wallet and keys and leaves her flat without uttering another word. 

When John sleeps in his own bed that night, he dreams of making love to a furious Sherlock. After they fucked Sherlock leaves him for adultery. 

~~*~~

After that appalling bedroom ordea,l John dates and has sex with another handful of women over the next two months. And even though he enjoys it, (because it is sex and sex is pleasurable) he can’t help but feel that something is missing. She gets off, he gets off. And that’s about it really. He is starting to wonder whether it will ever be the way it used to be. He has made love to plenty of women in his days, but there has only been one person he has considered himself to be in love with. 

And that one person is never coming back. 

It’s on a free afternoon when John is jogging in Regent’s park that he seriously starts contemplating the possibility of shagging a man instead. It is not the first time John has thought about this, but he has _always_ considered himself straight; a ladies man. He can’t quite explain why he ended up with an armful of detective in his bed and realising he loved him more than life itself.

And just then, a young man catches his eye and smiles atim him, checking him out from head to toe. John quickly looks away at the realisation of the young man’s intentions, but he is definitely considering the option now. He could just walk to the nearest gay pub if he wanted to. He could take the tube to Oxford Circus and go straight into Soho. But is that really what he wants? 

John is not sure. He has never sexually fancied any other man besides Sherlock, and even Sherlock was quite a hurdle to overcome for him. It did happen quite naturally in the end. He shakes his head as he halts for a walk. If a woman’s body is distracting to him, then how similar must a male’s body be to that of Sherlock’s? 

Eventually John decides it can’t hurt to try. 

During his third visit to an obscure gay pub in Soho he actually finds himself in a pleasant conversation with the very same lad from Regent’s Park. He turns out to be a regular at the pub, coming here with friends after work to have a drink before heading home. Especially since he recently broke up with his boyfriend. It’s busy, since it’s half five in the afternoon and men of all shapes and sizes surround them, making it a tight fit inside the bar. They chat about all sorts of things. It turns out that Chris is very interested In John’s career as a doctor and admires his intelligence. It’s been a long time since someone was this genuinely interested in him. 

Chris has blond hair, blonder than John’s own hair and less coarse and his eyes are a dark brown. He has a round and pleasing face and John likes him, if the anticipating flutters in his stomach are any indication. 

A few hours, ample pints and a bit of groping and kissing in a toilet stall later, the two of them take a cab back to Baker Street. John indicates him to quietly walk up the stairs before Chris ducks down to kiss him again.

Once they reached the sitting room, John offers him a drink. Chris declines, so they stumble up the stairs to John’s bedroom and it begins. The strong scent of male arousal in his nostrils with every inhale makes his head swim and it’s Sherlock he’s kissing, Sherlock’s tongue against his own, battling for dominance.

But it is really not for one, Chris lets him lead the kiss, his smell is wrong, and so Sherlock hovers in the back of his mind, ever present, yet not quite.

They fumble with shirt buttons as they stumble through the door of John’s bedroom. Chris is not particular muscular, but he is warm and hard under John’s palms and he decides he finds his physique attractive enough. He flicks a nipple and is rewarded with a gasp of pleasure from Chris.

John steps away and removes his shirt as he gestures for Chris to move to the bed. “Lie down.” John says huskily, his voice rough with arousal. “Let me take care of you.” He murmurs as he shrugs out of his shirt and pounces towards his prey. They are both hard and straining against the confined material of their denim trousers. 

He leans down for a kiss and Chris returns it greedily, cupping John’s arse in the process and John shivers in anticipation. John’s kisses, nips and licks his way down his new lover’s body and nuzzles Chris’ cock through his jeans as his hands open the belt and zipper. Before he continues, though, he dips two fingers into his own trouser pocket and retrieves a condom. No chances this time.

Chris hears the rip of the packet and looks up, propping himself up onto his elbows. “Oh really, do you have to?” he groans. But John hushes him with a fixed and heated look and a rather skilled twist of his wrist as he grips Chris’ cock and draws him out of his pants. Chris hisses and gets the message. “Alright then.” He whimpers as John strokes him and rolls on the condom. Then John shoves Chris’ trousers down to his knees. 

John loves giving oral sex and he expects that giving it to another man makes no exception, even with the latex barrier between them. The texture and the musky smell, though, couldn’t be further away from Sherlock. It’s similar of course; the heavy weight of a cock against his tongue, the soft glans against his palate, the fragrances drifting through the room and the feel of hard pelvis bone under John’s fingers as he holds Chris’ hips pinned down to the bed, his fingers scraping desperately at John’s scalp.

The sounds Chris makes sound wrong to John’s ears, no deep baritone voice that is purring as he does this to him. He misses that tangy masculine scent that is Sherlock. Chris’ abdominal muscles are not as responsive as Sherlock’s used to be as they spasmed under his fingers. John has to remind himself that this is not Sherlock, that he is pleasuring another man. And it is not his fault that Sherlock is not around anymore. 

Instead John concentrates on the job at hand and licks, bites, sucks and laps at Chris’ hardness until his jaw starts to strain. He pulls off and kisses the inside of Chris’ thigh before he draws back. He removes both their shoes and socks while Chris kicks off his own trousers and pants after he regained his breathing. John is painfully hard and his fingers are shaking as he lowers his own jeans and pants. He intends to make the most of the night after all. And Sherlock is with him, he will always be. Lurking in the shadows. 

~~*~~

When John wakes up the following morning, he finds himself alone in his bed. The bed is an absolute wreck. He glances around, looking for his bed partner. But he’s not in the room. John stretches, accidentally pulling a muscle in his back and he groans. He scratches the puckered edges of his scar and spots a yellow post it note on his nightstand. He takes a closer look and finds that it’s a message from his young man. 

_‘Had to dash, sorry. Enjoyed myself. Breakfast in bed next time to make it up. Yours, Chris.’_

John cringes a little at the _‘yours’,_ but thinks nothing of it. The note also contains Chris’ number. After a moment of contemplation John shrugs and he saves Chris’ number into his mobile phone.

He lies back on the bed, being actually rather pleased to be alone. He’s not sure what he would have done or said after their encounter last night. Not that it wasn’t good. It was. It was just – different? And still very distracting, he would lie to himself if he’d say that Sherlock wasn’t on his mind even a great deal more last night than with any of his past female encounters. But at least Chris either didn’t seem to notice, or he didn’t mind. 

~~*~~

The morning after their second sexual encounter John walks down the stairs with his dressing gown tied around him. Chris is watching TV in nothing but a spare pair of John’s pyjama trousers. They are a bit too short for him and fall loosely around his hips, even as he lounges on the sofa. 

“Good morning.” John greets and leans down for a kiss, which Chris returns. “Did you sleep well?“

“Mmh.” Chris hums happily. 

John stretches and walks into the kitchen. “Aren’t you cold?” 

Chris zaps away from the channel he had been watching and sits up. “Are you kidding me? I need to cool down for a bit.”

John smiles, offers him tea and sets about to fill the kettle. He states the messy state of the kitchen, leftover take-away, empty wine bottles, wine and tea stained glasses and tea mugs are everywhere. He clicks his tongue softly against his palate and starts filling the sink as he sees Chris coming towards him from the corner of his eye. 

John offers him a mug of _‘English Breakfast’_ before he starts washing up the last night’s dishes. 

They stand in silence for a bit before John breaks it. “Chris, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

John freezes, the slippery wineglass falling from his fingers to the ground, next to his bare feet. 

“Excuse me?” He utters and then starts as Chris moves past him and ducks down to take care of the fallen glass. “Oh pancake.” Chris laughs softly, amusedly. 

But John is far from amused. He steps back carefully, avoiding stepping into any of the tiny pieces of broken glass. “Hold it, just - just leave them for a bit.” He grips the edge of the counter so hard that his knuckles white, bowing his head low between his shoulders and he swears under his breath. 

Chris throws the largest fragments of glass in the bin, circles around the kitchen table and timidly steps behind John’s back, his arms encircling his chest. “It doesn’t matter.” He whispers into John’s ear. 

“It doesn’t ma-?” John begins as he snaps his head up. “Do you have any idea how old I am?” He demands.

“Fifty?” Chris muses. 

John turns around in his arms and glares at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Chris chuckles, and nuzzles John’s forehead. “Relax, I’m just pulling your leg.”

Irritated, confused and disgusted with himself he gently pushes some space between himself and Chris. “That’s not the point.” He licks his lips and then groans loudly. “This is a bit not good.” Chris slumps backwards and sits down unto the kitchen table. It creaks slightly under his weight. 

“Fuck, you’re not even old enough to buy a drink! What were you doing in that pub in the first place?” John asks sceptically. 

“They don’t ask for my ID, if that’s what you mean. I, well – I tend to look older than I actually am.”

John huffs humourlessly. “Jesus Christ, I could be your father if it comes to that!”

“It doesn’t matter John, it really doesn’t.” Chris says, his voice gentle and sweet. He reaches forward to grip John’s hand and entwines his fingers with his own. “I am really fond of you, John.” Chris says. “I think I might even love you.” 

John’s heart sinks and he feels a sudden knot of dread developing in his stomach. “I –“ he clears his throat. “I am not looking for relationship.” He says quietly.

“Oh.” Chris tightens the grip he has on John’s hand. “But, what I feel John, it’s huge. You must feel it too? Don’t you? I know you do.” 

John smiles thoughtfully, shaking his head. What’s unfolding in front of him is a clear case of young, wild and reckless adolescent love. What mess did he get himself into? When he looks back at Chris, a pair of hopeful eyes meet his. 

“It’s not that I don’t like you Chris. I do – it’s just. It’s far more complicated than that.” John tells him and it’s the honest answer. 

Chris looks like he’s on the verge of tears. He rubs a desperate hand across his face. “How often does one feel like this? This feeling comes from deep within me John!” He says, as he gestures towards his chest with his hand, his voice is raised with a frantic edge to it. 

John steps closer and strokes his fingers through the short strands of Chris’ hair in what he hopes is a calming fashion. “A few times.” He says gently.

“Fuck off, what do you mean a few times. It happens only once.”

John cradles his head between his hands. “Listen to me, it happens a few times.” He smooth’s Chris’ hair back and he can feel him relaxing as the tension ebbs away between them. “God, you’re just a kid.” 

Chris lowers his eyes in annoyance and John rubs his back affectionately. “Come on, drink your tea and get dressed. I’ll fetch the hoover.”

After languidly kissing each other goodbye on the sofa, (John is a gentleman after all) they do not meet each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Gladstone arms](http://www.thegladpub.com/) is a very cute pub in Borough, London. :)


	6. Meretricious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions or surgical procedures. Lots of injuries and blood. Be warned. Also I am not a surgeon, so any mistakes are on my part. :)

It’s two weeks to Christmas, not something John is looking much forward to. He has a very demanding shift at the hospital that particular week. It’s always busy at the trauma department, but not as much as this. On Monday, three trauma helicopters return from a traffic collision on the M4 with several heavily wounded casualties. Most of them suffer from broken bones and glass splinters, but their main concerns are punctured organs. 

After John has been summoned, he hurries down the corridors of the trauma wing to the operating room. His assistant hands him his gown and he applies his foot masks, hairnet and surgical mask. As he disinfects his hands and arms. he eyes himself over in the mirror. He sees that his face is coloured a sick green from the gown and the TL lights. His assistant helps John with his gloves and they walk into the operating-room.

John´s first patient, a 28-year-old woman, has a punctured lung and stomach, a broken femur and broken glass in her face. She is stable by the time John has patched her up. Leaving her non-vital injuries for the other departments.   
His next patient, a 31-year-old man has serious internal bleedings due to a punctured artery. He is a right mess inside and John does his very best to staunch the bleeding. His efforts are in vain as the young man hearts falters after just ten minutes of surgery. They perform CPR in a desperate attempt to get his heart muscle back to work, but to no avail. 

John raises his arms in defeat and takes a few deep breaths. There is nothing he can do anymore and the team stitch the young man up. A colleague pats him on the shoulder and they leave the room for a well-deserved break and a coffee.

“It happens John.” Steven Howard, a fellow surgeon, tells him.

John nods absentmindedly as he sips his too hot cup of coffee. “I know.” He says. “It doesn’t make it any easier, though.” But he smiles, knowing full well that he can’t linger too long on someone’s passing. 

If only it were that easy all of the time.

“No one told us it would be easy.” Steven agrees. “And no-one ever told us that this job could be this hard.”

John snorts. “Did you just make a Coldplay reference?” 

Steven shrugs “What of it?” And they both laugh. “Come on, it’s been a tough night. You should get some sleep.” 

When he comes home early in the morning, he drags himself into bed. He lies there in the quiet of the flat and naturally his gaze begins to wander. Sherlock is with him in the room but they do not exchange words. John doesn’t want to and they don’t have to. Sherlock understands and nods as John closes his weary eyes. 

Just before he falls asleep he swears he can feel the ghosts of warm fingers stroke his hair in a comforting fashion.

~~* ~~

Tuesday passes by relatively routine like, if one has the nerve to call it that. Patients do come in of course, but their injuries are fairly easy to treat. That following Wednesday, however, John has a nightshift and a victim of an apparent drug raid is brought in. The surgeon team is told that the patient has several bullet wounds. A brain surgeon is summoned to the trauma wing, which is just as well because one of the bullets might have grazed his brain. Not John’s area of expertise. 

John clicks his tongue as he observes the man before him and he sets to work as the brain surgeon bends over his share. The man is hit in the side and upper arm. The bullet in the man’s side punctured intestine, but they are relatively easy to stitch up. He finds the bullet just before a kidney and he carefully removes it. The man’s peritoneum is ripped by the force of the bullet and it takes John some time to repair it.

When he has stitched the wound up John turns his attention to the man’s arm and he is faced by a wreck as the bullet entrance is revealed by an assistant. Bone is splintered, sinews are teared up and thick white nerves hang loose. John's mouth tightens, obscured by his mask, it looks like cooked spaghetti. John knows he cannot repair this, and nods to his assistant, whom hurries off to call for a bone and nerve specialist. 

The best thing he can do right now is remove the bullet and the black residue, so his colleagues can have a clean view to the matter at hand. John spends a total of 4 hours on the man and is rather exhausted as his shift ends. 

John takes the early tube and eats breakfast along the way. He collapses into bed when he gets home, utterly spent. He wakes up around noon and stretches luxuriously in his warm nest of blankets as the sunlight drifts into his bedroom from the windows. God he didn’t even bother to draw the curtains. He spends the rest of the day on sofa, ordering take away and watching awful telly and a few DVDs he has lying around. Occasionally when the mood strikes him he talks to Sherlock about his day. Whether Sherlock is actually willing to listen or not, John does not care. 

~~*~~

Friday is cruel, another nightshift, this time in which he has to staunch the internal bleedings of a young child that fell from first floor window due to a house fire. John is not allowed to sooth and relieve her from her 2nd and 3rd degree burns, an assistant is seeking after that, but John’s hands itch to help and he can see that the skin on her face and hands has melted together and that she will be mutilated for life, the poor sod. 

John is so fed up about not being able to do anything to help her physically. But he reminds himself why he is here and gets to work with it. Her internal bleedings aren’t as bad as he expected, which is a relief. She has a cracked rib and luckily it did not puncture her lung. He assists the brown surgeon with the patient’s head trauma. The child fell on her head and although her neck is not broken, her skull is cracked. A brain surgeon is there to help. They relieve her from the pressure the blood is having on her brain tissue. After that John examines her pelvis, which appears to be broken as well. It turns out that her hip socket is ruptured and John asks his assistant to call an orthopaedic surgeon to have a closer look, as this is not something he can fix. 

The surgeon arrives and takes over John’s patient. John exhales a breath of relief, for this particular patient has drained him emotionally and physically. He walks to the disinfect hall and removes his blood-stained gloves and gown. After removing his foot-masks, surgical mask and hairnet he washes his hands thoroughly. He is startled as he gives himself a quick look over in the mirror. His face is drained from colour and it looks alien to himself, yet the skin around his eyes is haggard and shadowy, the bags hanging heavily under his eyes. 

He runs a hand through his mussed hair and makes his way to the canteen for a cup of strong coffee. 

John is sipping his hot espresso, as his bleeper goes off, calling him back to the trauma wing. He closes his tired eyes for a moment, before quickly downing his coffee without scorching his tongue and palate. He is throwing the paper cup away when someone calls his name.

“By my life and death, if it isn’t Dr. John Watson.” 

John turns around and is eye to eye with the bright smile of William Murray. John cracks a genuine grin and they embrace, patting each other on the back. “Good to see you mate, what are you doing here?” He asks as his eyes drift to his nameplate. On his tag the two letters D and R stand proudly before Murray’s name. 

“Trained on to become a doctor.” Murray says cheerfully. “The missus preferred if I stayed closer to home and thus here I am. Didn’t think I would ever see you here, though?! How have you been, I’m sorry to lose contact again, but you seemed to be rather busy, if you blog was any indication. I’m sorry about – well – “

John knows he means well, but he really does not want to deal with any more raw emotions at the moment. He nods and makes a hasty apology. “It’s fine - listen: I got to dash. My shift ends at approximately 5p.m. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

They part and John hastily returns to the emergency wing. 

He is very fond of Bill, he feels comfortable around him. He gives off some sort of soothing energy that is rare among the people John knows. Hell, John has known him longer than any of his other friends. They were at college together before going their separate ways at Uni. Getting themselves into all sorts of pickles and awkward situations, yet one of them was always there to get the other out. Their friendship has lasted a lifetime. Even though they do not see each other as much as they would like.

And John owes him. After all it was this man, this William Murray, who saved John’s life back when he was suffering from enteric fever after he got shot in Afghanistan. 

Three long hours later, John is taking a long and hot shower. The communal shower room is deserted and John just stands there, thinking about nothing in particular when a cough wakes him from his quiet reverie. He startles and turns around sharply only to find a casually clothed Bill grinning at him from the door opening.

“You lost quite some muscle and are even skinnier from last I saw you in London.” Bill comments, concern edging his voice. 

John turns of the shower off and reaches for the white towel he pads past Bill to retrieve a towel. “And I didn’t know you had a thing for voyeurism.” John counters, amused. 

“I am serious John, you looked like shite after you returned from Afghanistan. And we only met up briefly a few times. You look even worse now you lost a lot of weight. Even you must have noticed.”

“I am fine.” John grumbles, but he is not angry, just a tad agitated. 

Bill steps closer. “Your shoulder wound healed nicely though.” He observes.

John barks a laugh as he glances over his shoulder towards Bill, nicely isn’t the word he would use for the pink reddish star shaped scar tissue. The scar is even messier on the back of his shoulder where the bullet exited as it ripped through muscle and sinew. It’s still sensitive and Sherlock used to be absolutely fascinated by it. The way he could make John squirm with pleasure, sometimes on the brink of pain, by caressing, liking or biting it, was something John had never experienced before with any other lover. It was as if it was a newly formed erogenous area on John’s body he wouldn’t have had if he hadn’t gotten shot that particular day in Afghanistan. Or wouldn’t have known the existence of without Sherlock’s weird obsession over it and his affectionate and tender administrations. 

“Haven’t you got work to do?” John asks charmingly as he towels his damp body dry. 

“Finished an hour ago.” Bill says sheepishly and sits down on one of the benches in the changing rooms. 

“Bill-“ John begins as he dresses himself. 

But Bill interrupts him. “Listen mate - me and the missus were wondering if you would like to come over for Christmas dinner. That is, if you‘ve got nothing going on.” 

“I-“ John hesitates for a split second. He silently longs for a lonely Christmas, entirely out of non-selfish reasons, and he isn’t quite sure whether he wants company. Besides, his Sherlock would be waiting at home for him.  
But then Sherlock never was that that fond of Christmas. 

“It’s about time you meet Emily and we definitely should catch up, don’t you think? It will just be the four of us, Em will bring over a lady friend, no pressure, and my little tyke of course.” Bill continues.

John’s head snaps up and he meets Bill’s eye. “You have a son?” he queries. 

“Yes! A two year old.” And his eyes shine with pride. “Best bloody thing that ever happened to me, apart from marrying Emily of course. We’ve got our second on the way, she’s four months pregnant.” 

“I didn’t know.” John says and his voice is small, he sounds almost defeated. “Christ, I believe congratulations are in order.” A genuine smile blooms up the laugh lines around his eyes. “I would like that. Christmas, I mean.” He beams and slaps Bill upon the shoulder. They exchange phone numbers and walk to the staff exit of the hospital together before they part.

John’s brooding in the cab. he should have taken the tube, he muses. Although he has a steady salary inflow, the continuous cab rides seems like a total waste of money. He can’t be arsed really he concludes eventually. He has become so used to taking a cab over the past few years. He and Sherlock practically lived in one if they weren’t in the flat. 

He blinks, not surprised to find a bit of moisture in his eyes. He is emotionally drained and his shoulders aches. His last patient, a heavily beaten up prostitute with stab wounds in her chest and side. Pneumothorax and a damaged kidney. She required lot of stitching and only just only made it through. She lost an awful lot of blood. 

It wasn’t much of a challenge for John on a surgical level, but John was exhausted. 

Blood. So much blood. On barren plains. On the pavement.

One week till Christmas.

He sighs as the cabs pulls up in front the familiar door. Remembering Bill’s words, he reminds himself that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal for at least a day, so he walks through Speedy’s door to order the full English Breakfast and a cup of tea, English Breakfast. He digs in as if he’s starved. 

He puts himself to bed a little while later and crawls between the buildings of Baker Street, just as the first lights of dawn colours the inky sky. It is a beautiful new day, John decides. 

Christmas then. Fine.


	7. Memories of Blood Stained Soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some memories that will never completely fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my beta [Lisalice](lisalice.tumblr.com)! I am neither a doctor nor a soldier but I tried to be as accurate as possible. Enjoy!

Bill and Emily live in the South of London, a small but pleasant neighbourhood, ideal for raising a growing family. At first hand John thinks he’s wandering into a back alley, which then reveals into a very cosy looking street. Winter lights decorate the houses and the smell of Christmas roasts fills the air. He breaths into his gloved hands and rubs them together, anticipation and a small trace of eagerness coursing through his body. It’s cold outside, the snow grates below his feet. It’s not much of a white Christmas and most of it has turned to slush anyway, but it is snow nonetheless. It lifts John’s spirits significantly. 

He finds the house of the Murray family and rings the doorbell. He is greeted enthusiastically by Bill and gets introduced to his wife Emily. She is an a very pretty young woman from Indian descent. Her brown eyes are striking and her thick dark hair falls beautifully around her face. Her belly is starting to show the signs of her fourth month into pregnancy. 

John’s walks through their house, taking in every small detail while he talks pleasantly with the family. When he walks into the kitchen his eyes fall on a bull dog bitch suckling her four pups. He likes dogs, he used to own one when he was a teenager and he used to befriend the occasional stray in Afghanistan. 

Emily carefully kneels next to her dog and pats her head. She instantly starts to rumble in pleasure. “Aren’t they lovely.” She says as she looks up at John. The pups are milling around their mother, getting ready to sleep for the night with their bellies round and full of milk. John nods and smiles as one of them yawns luxuriously. 

“How old are they?” he asks since that is the appropriate thing to ask isn’t it? 

“Five weeks now. They’ve grown so unbelievably quick.” She eyes Bill who hands John a glass of red wine. “I can’t believe we have to part with them in four weeks’ time already, that will be a sad day.”

“It’s never easy.” Bill agrees and clinks his glass with John’s.

They move to the parlour and the doorbell rings a few minutes later. “That will be Mary.” Emily says as she excuses herself from their company. When she is out of earshot Bill winks at John. “You will like her Casanova.” 

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t call me that.” He says but laughs despite himself. 

“No but seriously, you will like her. She is very nice.” Bill’s smile is broad and John shoots him a glare. 

Mary is very pleasant looking woman, around his age, perhaps three or four years younger than he is. Her blonde hair reaches her shoulders, her eyes are greenish-blue and she smiles. She smiles a lot and John likes her smile from the instant she walked through the door. 

She and John make their acquaintance and get caught in a very pleasant conversation. John muses it must have been planned in advance, since both Emily and Bill have retreated to the kitchen, leaving the two of them in the parlour. They chat about the past and present. Not that John minds, on the contrary, he is rather charmed by her. She is very present, bright and chats very easily about all sorts of subjects. She provides a good distraction for him. And that, he considers, is exactly what he needs.  
He’s not sure whether he actually wants to proceed things with her though. 

~

Once the main courses and deserts have been cleared off the table, the women are enjoying a bottle of cinnamon flavoured liquor while the men are drinking Macallan whisky.  
Bill shoots John glance and shifts a bit closer. “You heard about Moran?” Bill asks John in a hushed voice as the ladies are chatting away about this, that and whatnot.

“What about him?” John enquires as he takes a sip of whisky, relishing the satisfying burning sensation that slides down his throat. He raises his eyebrows, his curiosity stirred. “Missing in action I believe he was? At least, that’s what I last heard about him.”

“No.” Bill says shaking his head. 

“No?” John echoes and Bill continues.

“That’s what we all thought. It’s rumoured that he’s been seen abroad. It turned out that he had connections with the Taliban – for what end I wouldn’t know, but it’s turning out to be rather serious – and while we all believed he was missing or killed in action he’s been leaking important and classified British, German, French and American documents to our enemies. I don’t know under what strain he must have been to give into this – God for all I know they tortured him. He’s recently been dishonourably discharged from the army. Chances may be he will never put another step on British soil again.”

John stares at him. And he isn’t the only one. Both Emily and Mary are looking intently at Bill. 

“I said too much.” Bill huffs as he a sip of whisky to moisten his mouth.

“Oh don’t stop now.” Mary prompts. “Who’s this Moran you talk about?”

“A right cunt.” Bill comments

“William.” Emily warns.

Bill laughs. “Oh but he is! Isn’t he, John?“ He asks as he nudges John with his foot under the table. 

“Malicious bastard.” John agrees. “But a good soldier. And by far the best marksman in the British army.” John cocks an eyebrow at Mary before reaching for his whisky again. “I am sorry but I am quite ruffled by this news. Jesus, who would have thought, Seb in conspiracy with the Taliban? Do they know whom he worked for? I cannot imagine him to be a bell-ringer.”

Bill shakes his head, lips shut tight. “No idea. But whoever it is, it can’t be good.”

“No I agree.” John says. “Still, I didn’t expect it. He’s been a good superior to us, I quite admired his leaderships skills in Afghanistan.”

“You served in the war?” Mary asks and her eyes lit up, they sparkle with interest and approval. 

John clears his throat. “Uhm. Yeah. Army doctor.”

“A doctor?” She sounds honestly intrigued. As most people do when hearing about his military service. It’s not something he likes to talk about in general, exceptions are made of course, but it always brings up memories of some sort. 

Bill laughs before he puts a glass of water to his lips and swallows. “And a fine soldier! What was it again John, the Military Cross? That’s not a mere decoration, it gets awarded to acts of gallantry.” He raises his glass and winks to John. “Cheers!”

“It was just – I didn’t –“ John stutters, but Mary and Bill chatter in awe, clearly not aware of John’s discomfort on the subject.

It was his duty. Nothing more. He does not deserve that medal. He is certainly not proud of receiving it. Hell it was his job, getting shot at. And he hadn’t made a good job of it either, or else he would still have been there doing it. John loses himself into his own thoughts very quickly after that. He can hear voices talking, but he doesn’t take in what is being said. 

_“Honourable discharged, he got shot in the shoulder. I nursed him back to health-”_

~

It was a day like any other. Hot, stuffy, dusty. Foreboding did not hang in the air. In retrospect John might have had a gut feeling. But he had become used to that. Injuries among the troops, whether serious or not, always occurred. 

The first few months in Afghanistan John often stayed at Camp Bastion. It was only recently, after completing his trauma surgeon degree and with that being promoted to captain, that he joined the boys in the field. He was well known among the men, respected and loved. Especially by the female nurses. 

For the past week they had patrolled the same area during the heat of the day. Now and then assisting resupply convoys heading for Forward Operating Bases. providing a safe passage across the Afghani plains. Today it was dreadfully hot. His full body armour strapped to his chest, his compact helmet, his assault rifle held close to his body, and all the extra weight he was carrying made him sweat like an otter. He wore a camelback filled with water as a rucksack and drank slow sips from it whenever he needed to. The red cross patch strapped to his upper left arm made him stand out amongst all the other boys. Yes boys, not men. He was by far one of the elder men, except for their leading Captain Roberts and Lieutenant Hall. 

Their patrol convoy consisted of five heavily armoured infantry vehicles and they were crossing an expanse of open rusty red-brown Afghan plain, coming down from the mountain roads. They were on their way to the next small Patrol Base. John figured they were about an hour drive away from their next destination. From his position in the second patrol vehicle he observed a group of rare wild sheep He shifted his sunglasses and squinted his eyes to get a better look. The native sheep, known as _urial_ , stood in a small group of four or five animals, a ram with his ewes near the mountains. About two miles back. He nudged the arm of Roberts as he pointed them out, knowing Roberts greatly enjoyed admiring the local wildlife whenever he had the chance to indulge.

“Well spotted.” He told John as he patted him on the back in appreciations, when suddenly they were startled by an enormous deafening explosion. 

The ground shook, a wave of heat rushed over them and they were thrown to the ground from their position in the second vehicle as they sensed the horrid smell of burning fuel and the screams of men in pain, coming from the first infantry vehicle. 

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Where did it come from?”

“Call for areal support right now. God damn it, get some bloody cover behind those abandoned buildings!” Roberts roared over the chaotic screams, loud engines and semi-automatic shots fired from the hills to their right. “They are using anti-tank weapons on us. Fucking Hell.” He motioned for the other vehicles to follow them to the rubble for shelter. 

John’s senses were on full alert. He was needed, making ready to disembark the vehicle, his boys were calling for him. “Watson! For God’s sake medic!” But Roberts held his arm firmly as he tried to get off the driving truck.

“Wait till we have some cover. You are no use to them dead.”

It took too long for John’s liking to reach the heavily damaged shelther. Shots were fired from the convoy itself while they were driving, lessening enemy fire to some extent.  
John tore his shades off and pocketed them. He checked his medical supply bag before he jumped off the vehicle when it came to a halt. He gathered his unit to provide covering fire as they went back to pick up their injured boys. 

“Barton and Foster, provide covering fire. Green, Morris, Hawa, Ruwin, Appleton, you’re with me and you’re going to run like Hell. And remember if the enemy is in range then so are you. I am counting on you to get them all back.”

“Yes Sir.” They all said in unison.

“Come then and follow me!”

John ran, he ran as fast and crouched as low to ground as he could. He could faintly hear the shots fired from both friend and foe above the rush of the blood through his veins. His pulse beating loudly in his ear. They all reached the burning heap of gasoline and metal where a few of the men were hiding from Taliban fire. 

“What took you so long.” One of the younger more daring soldiers yells at them. 

“Leave it, Turner.” His superior growled as he clutched his injured arm. “Four dead, they are still inside. Two heavily wounded. I’m fine really.” John removed his helmet and kneeled next to him anyway as the rest of his unit joined them behind the burning wreck. Covering their mouths his their hands and pieces of cloth against the fumes emerging from the vehicle. 

John briefly examined the wound of Hall. “Just a scratch, can you walk?” Hall nodded and he and Turner stood. “Okay” John said “Ruwin, go with them. Appleton and Green; give them some covering fire.” He said over his shoulder before moving on to the seriously injured men. One them was shot in the thigh, which most probably happened when they disembarked the vehicle. They had burns as well, but they would be taken of later. John turned to the soldier that was worst in shape, and he was losing consciousness. Another boy was pressing his hands over the wound. John spoke to him as he treated the injured soldier. “What’s your name lad?” he asked as he checked the other man’s pulse, pupils and dog tags. Blood type AB+. “Sam, sir. Sam Hailey. This is Corporal Waine. Sir.”

“Are you hurt?” John asked as he took out his medical supplies and put on a pair of nitrile gloves.

“No sir.” The boy answered. 

John smiled at him. “Good. You are doing a good job there, very steady hands. I want you to keep pressure on the wound. Can you do that for me?”

The boy, barely out of his twenties, nodded and John moved around him so he could get a good look at the injury in the soldier’s thigh. Underneath Hailey’s hands the thick cotton cloth was drenched in bright red arterial blood. Not a good sign. “Lift your hands for a second.” And as soon as Hailey did John cut his combat pants open for a better view and poured an quantity of powdered anti-bacterial sulphonamide drug on the wound. “Pressure.” He said demandingly as he handed Hailey a sterile gauze. 

John started to bandage the wound. He was pleased at how helpful Corporal Hailey was. When Waine was bandaged up John gave him a shot of morphine to ease the pain somewhat. “He will be fine.” He told Hailey. “You’ll make a fine nurse someday, if you choose that path. Get yourself clean and tested” John said nodding at his blood stained hands as he slapped him on the back and went to the next patient. 

Shot in the arm twice. But he was conscious and he could walk. Pulse rate high but okay, pupils dilated as expected. Blood type A-. John covered up his injury as well as he could. “We should go Captain Watson.” Sergeant Morris warned. “They are getting suspicious and these fumes are anything but healthy.” He said indicating his teary eyes. John wiped the sweat of his brow and gave Sergeant Sole a shot of morphine before helping him to his feet. 

John turned to Morris. “We will get back for the bodies.” Pain edging his voice not wanting to leave anyone behind but he had no other choice at the moment. “You and Hawa up front, followed by Sole and you Hailey. I will carry Waine myself. Appleton and Green provide covering fire at the back.”

“Turner, Ruwin and Hall arrived safely, sir”. Green provided before John hauled Waine’s unconscious body over his shoulders. His neck meeting the uncomfortable armour of Waine’s bulletproof vest. Morris came forward and strapped John’s helmet to his chin. “Better not forget that, sir.” He said and his eyes twinkled.  
“Better not.” John agreed as he adjusted Waine’s body so he could run more easily. “Ok boys. Let’s get out of here.”

As soon as Morris and Hawa emerged from behind the burning vehicle, cracking shots rung in the air. But there was no time to think. The only thing they could do was run. Run like they had never run before they did. John felt the strain of carrying another body across the battle field and he had to keep his mind clear so as not to trip over his own feet.  
When they were about two thirds of the way, the enemy fire got stronger. It was literally prize shooting for them. Thank God most of them were crap shots John thought. Short after he got caught by a scream and a falling body. It was young Corporal Hailey and John’s heart sank. Sole tripped since Hailey had been supporting him while running. John tried to turn as he kept running, trying to address Green. 

“Green help carry Sole. Appleton, don’t stop firing!”

They ran. The soldiers at the base providing covering fire for them too and when John jumped over the rubble to join his men he did not hesitate. He carried Waine’s body to safety and turned back to the frontline. Everyone was in. Expect young Sam Hailey. 

“Fuck.” He said loudly. Picking up his assault rifle he ran back to across the plains to where Hailey fell. He faintly heard Roberts screaming his name loudly.

“Watson you mad bastard come back!”

If John had a sense of duty, it would be this. Helping. John would leave no one behind if it could be helped. Whether dead or alive. And there still might be a chance. There might be. 

“Watson!” He could hear several of the men calling him back. But he didn’t turn back, he kept no running until he reached the body of Corporal Hailey. John crouched down next to him pressed his fingers to Hailey’s bloody neck in a rushed attempt to find his carotid artery. He couldn’t feel a pulse. John lifted up the body by the forearms and his heart sank in the dreaded realisation. 

Beneath his combat boots the soil was stained a dark purplish red. He stood in sticky pool of mud created by the sand and Hailey’s blood. Realisation that he was too late hit him hard right then and there. But there was no time to linger in the open and he knew it. John inhaled sharply and heaved, throwing Hailey’s lifeless body across his shoulders. Then he ran back to safety. 

His legs felt light yet heavy at the same time. He ran and he ran. 

Suddenly he was thrown off balance by the force of the impact as a bullet hit the armoured plate in his lower back. A blunt pain, as if someone had kicked him in the back. Hailey toppled to the right and off his shoulders and John was spun around by the momentum of movement and the sheer weight of him. This sudden motion caused his knees to buckle and he fell to the ground, piling half atop of Hailey’s body. 

Before John hit the ground, a fierce and cold pain soared through his left shoulder, just above the armoured body. It felt hot and cold and as if he was on fire, an itch he could not scratch but ten times worse than he could ever have imagined. He screamed in agony and whimpered as he tried to assess what happened to him. He heard the men were calling his name further up. “Watson!” John tried to crane his head towards the noise, but everything went black within mere moments. The only thing he could remember was crackling fire from their Apache helicopters and the thrumming sound of the rotating blades.

He was dying. 

“Please God. Let me live.” John breathed unevenly before he lost consciousness. 

~

“Watson.” 

He was in a field hospital. Bill Murray’s voice was calling him back. He recognised that voice. God his shoulder hurt. What had happened. 

“Watson.”

~

“John. John?”

John suddenly snaps back into the now. Looking like a deer caught in traffic light. He hitches in a breath and almost chokes up on it, an icy cold shiver running down his spine. It feels very uncomfortable. 

Emily eyes him speculative, Marry looks worried and Bill is caught between amusement and sincere concern. “Lost you there for a bit mate? Is everything all right?”

John clears his throat. “Yeah. Fine.” He takes a sip of water. He doesn’t like the way everyone is eying him. As if he owes them some of sort of explanation. He stands. “Excuse me.” He says.

“John?” Murray asks. 

“I said excuse me.” Jesus Christ, since when did he adopt Sherlock’s manners. He goes to the toilet and stares at himself in the small mirror as he washes his hands. He looks feeble and feels nauseous. He splashes a bit of water in his face before he exits and finds Emily waiting for him in the hallway. 

“Hey.” She says cautiously, afraid she might startle him. “Are you quite all right?”

John clears his throat and fists his hand before he nods and croaks. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Emily hesitates. “That was unnecessary. From Bill’s account I mean. He can be so enthusiastic at times, he doesn’t think his words through properly. But you probably know, you’ve known him longer than I have.”

John shakes his head. “It’s fine really.” He takes his jacket from the coat stand and tugs it as Emily watches. “Thank you for your hospitality and dinner. I enjoyed it.” John says to her and smiles. “Bid them a good night from me ok?” He kisses her cheek and leaves. 

 

On new year’s eve, just after the clock turned twelve, John receives a text message from an unknown number. It reads: _Happy New Year John. x Mary_

He squints at the screen as he tries to figure out how on earth she got hold of his number. He rubs his temple as realisation hits him. “Bill” he mutters and groans, getting up from his chair to pour himself another brandy. Mrs. Hudson will join him soon for the necessary celebratory nibbles.


End file.
